


When Hades Met Persephone

by AvaCelt



Series: Gothic Horror Prompt Fills - 2020 [8]
Category: Black Clover - Tabata Yuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Contracts, Demon/Human Relationships, Demons, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamscapes, Dreamsharing, El Demonio is a gay man who enjoys jazz, Faustian Bargain, Human/Monster Romance, Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Silence a Fable, Jazz with some feathers and gay people swing dancing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: When a man makes a Faustian contract, the least he can do is learn to dance, right? Except, Asta's never danced with anyone before, and now there's poison in his hands. Maybe he should have thought twice before selling his soul to a demon. [Asta/Anti Magic Demon with allusions to Hades and Persephone, post-canon]
Relationships: Asta/Liebe (Black Clover)
Series: Gothic Horror Prompt Fills - 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900357
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	When Hades Met Persephone

**Author's Note:**

> Because in my head, Asta and El Demonio are just dumber versions of Persephone and Hades.

It's the sordid little details that Asta remembers when he wakes up. He can't remember the place, barely even remembers the colors, but the curve of razor-sharp talons and tendrils of sentient hair never seem to leave him, not even when he's awake and trying his best to suppress his dreams.

He supposes that's what happens when you contract your soul to unearthly creatures.

He's not afraid, of course. If anything, he’s curious. The creature doesn't have the alabaster skin of the nobles he's met in the capital, and it's not stiff, and cold, and unwilling to converse with him. In fact, its black flesh and long limbs seem to move like water. At first, Asta had actually thought that the creature was a mirage. When it spoke, he'd assumed it was made of vapor.

But vapor couldn't lift his chin with a sharp talon, not with movements as dainty as a noblewoman's. But the Anti-Magic Demon did just that – it lifted Asta's chin with its sharp talon, and then it called Asta's headband ugly to his face.

So much for easy beginnings.

Every night, he goes to bed with sweat trickling down his face, and dread settling deep in his core. During the day, he oftentimes finds himself aching for something he doesn't quite understand. It's a feeling unlike any other. It's not like his thirst for validation from his peers and rivals, and _very_ unlike the unholy thoughts he has about Sister Lily, because he's just as useless as any other man, chasing a woman he can never have.

But this, it's different. Sometimes, Asta feels like he's being showcased in front of a crowd, and maybe this newfound desire is a result of having his validation fulfilled by none other than a demon. After all, he barely remembers the dreams, barely remembers what happens after he closes his eyes, but he wants to know. It feels queer – unbelievable, even.

And so Asta does what every other fool does – he buys a sleeping draught off the black market so he'll be _forced_ to remember what happens, just so he can kill his curiosity for good. His dreams are his own, after all.

But when Asta closes his eyes that night, the last thing he expects is to fall down a great, black hole. He screams, of course, cries for Sister Lily and Yuno, hollers for squadmates, anyone really, to save him before he falls to his death, but he doesn't stop falling – at least not until he lands in a dance hall clean on his feet.

A song is just ending when he arrives, clad in a black and gold suit, the first four buttons of his shirt undone, his hair loose, and thick, and a mess. The blazer is black and embroidered with gold, five-leaf clovers. The shoes are thick leather, and his hands – they're as black as night.

His talons are sharper than the demon's.

The crowd around him doesn’t disperse. There's a live band somewhere, fingers tapping on piano keys while someone strums a guitar, but Asta's too short to see where. His vertical curse conjures the perfect blush, and so what if he's huffing and puffing, a man has the right to know where the hell he ends up when he's asleep.

Asta wishes the music was mediocre, but it's not. Another beat, and the tell-tale intonations of scat singing begin to filter through the air. The crowd is ecstatic about the new sound, pairs swinging and dancing across the shining floor while Asta just awkwardly stands there. He's miffed that he wants to sway his hips too, wants to swing with Sister Lily to the mixed rhythm. Maybe he'll wake up soon and the humiliation of being a dateless, magicless little freak will go away.

No one from the crowd approaches him, of course, because who would want to solicit a dance from someone a foot shorter than them? Instead, the individuals are preoccupied with their partners and friends. It _is_ a dream, after all. He can't help but let out a dry laugh. So _this_ is how his deep-rooted loneliness manifests in the dreamscape – a dateless night at the hottest dance hall in town.

Asta wishes that he could have been born just a _few_ inches taller, but a jury would probably argue for a few more brain cells instead, because what happens next _isn't_ a dream, and that's when it all comes together.

The demons arms are around his hips before he knows it. He jumps, of course, his body moving to action almost preternaturally.

But when he turns around, it's not a slithering, black mass that kind of looks like a cross between sentient tar and a bat – instead, it's a man.

No – it's the demon.

Asta has to rub his eyes four times before he can believe what he's seeing. It's the demon, alright, down to the wings, the thick horns, and those disgustingly sharp claws.

But it also has salmon-colored lips and inky black skin that glitters like diamonds. It's tall, inhumanly so, but it's floating just a few inches off the floor, clad in its own suit, its blazer bursting with feathers. Whereas Zagred had been a freak of nature, the outfit matches his demon's deep red eyes, and complements its sharp, white teeth. Stray feathers are scattered across the floor. Asta has the urge to pick one up and offer it as a sign of apology.

“How about a flower instead?” It asks, voice deeper than any man Asta has ever met.

Asta doesn't know where the hell he's supposed to find a flower in a dance hall, but suddenly, he remembers that his blazer has pockets, that his _pants_ have pockets, and he starts to frantically shuffle his hands around to see if maybe there's something, _anything_ that he can give the mystifying creature who's long, black hair falls in waves down its shoulders.

He finds the flower in his breast pocket. It's a lone pink oleander, a few poisonous petals already coming loose in his hands. When he finally looks up at the creature again, it's already lifting his chin with its sharp talon again.

“At least you don't have the ugly headband on tonight,” it drawls casually.

“Where am I?” Asta asks, the flower still in his hand, the only thing standing between the creature and himself.

“A club?” It responds with little interest. It plucks a petal off the flower and rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.

“... a club?” He _knows_ what a club is, has helped Finral pick up Vanessa, Magna, and Yami enough times to know that it's one of those places that won't accept a magicless freak like him.

Come to think of it – where's all the magic?

Asta's eyes dart around in wonder for several seconds before landing on the demon who looks as bored as Yuno does when he has to listen to Asta whine.

It stings, but it's true. It's not like he's anything special – he has to _make_ himself useful, or else everyone will forget about him.

But the creature with glittering black skin, and teeth shinier than the cleanest silverware, stands clad in a suit that oddly matches his own. The demon has its own four buttons undone, and Asta takes a big, loud gulp when he spies the sharp edges of thin collarbones, and smooth black skin against a taut chest.

The demon smirks softly, as if it can hear Asta's thoughts. It's not even looking at him, playing with the flower petal instead, but still, it's smiling.

And Asta can't believe how pretty that smile is.

“Why?” He asks out loud, because this isn't right, the demon is a monster, a freak, something that is _actually_ forbidden, but instead, it's beautiful, so incredibly beautiful that Asta wants to grab it by its waist and swing it around like the men are swinging their women around.

Its red eyes shimmer like disco lights, as if it knows _exactly_ what Asta is thinking. Then finally, it speaks.

“You become less human everyday. What makes you think you'll continue to find.... _just_ humans pretty?”

And it's a realization Asta wishes he didn't have at the tender age of seventeen, just nine weeks short of his eighteenth birthday, and in the presence of a demon, _in a bloody dream_.

“Oh fuck,” he whispers in awe.

“At least you can dance,” the demon sighs listlessly. “My last contractor only wanted to eat and stare at the cows. How _terribly_ boring.”

Asta doesn't even remember learning how to dance. “I can dance?”

And then the demon finally looks at him, smiling widely, all of its sharp teeth on display for everyone to see. It plucks the oleander out of Asta's hand, and tucks it into its front blazer pocket like it's a makeshift boutonniere. Then it grabs Asta's arm and wraps it around its waist. Suddenly, Asta's heart is floating.

Suddenly, Asta knows how to dance.

“You taught me how to dance,” Asta whispers with awe. “... inside of a dream.”

“Is it really a dream if it's actually happening?” The demon asks as they move to the rhythm, arm in arm.

“I don't know... is it _actually_ happening?”

“Of course it is,” it snaps, like Asta is dumb, which he knows he is. “You can't just come to Hell with me. I have to prepare your mind and your soul. You'll get used to life inside of your dreams, then you'll become bolder when you're awake. Then finally – you'll take me home.”

“So... I don't actually sleep?”

The demon gives him an expression he's no stranger to.

“No,” it deadpans, giving him a glare that speaks volumes of how little it thinks of him. “You're a contractor now. You promised me your life, remember? I can't have you dying and coming back as a slouch. A man needs to know how to dance before he goes to Hell. It's boring and there's no magic, so I'm teaching you now. Be a _little_ grateful.”

Asta twirls the creature around in a full rotation right after it finishes speaking. Flecks of dust gather in the flashing lights, and many more plumes of feathers continue to fall off the demon's blazer as they move across the floor.

“Huh,” Asta whispers finally, his feet tapping to a new beat thrumming in the air. “Who would've thought?”

“If you'd let your brain naturally ease you in, then you wouldn't look so stupid right now, would you?” The demon grumbles into his ear before placing its cheek against his shoulder.

Asta finds himself tenderly embracing the creature as the music shifts to a soft ballad. Its hair is soft against his cheek, and its body is thin and frail, and Asta can't help but pull it closer, so close that he can deduce every aspect of its scent.

“I hope the sleeping draught was worth it,” the demon yawns from his shoulder.

Asta doesn't get to answer, because the next thing he knows, he's awake.

“Fuck,” he breathes shakily.

“Fuck, indeed,” Yami deadpans next to him. Asta screams and scrambles away from the towering man.

“Captain Yami!” Asta squeaks, like he's a rat and not three hundred pounds of pure muscle.

Yami looks bored, as usual, but there's also confusion in his eyes. “Chibi... what the fuck are you doing in the kitchen?”

“Huh?”

“You eat Charmy's leftovers? She'll kill ya.”

Asta rubs his eyes, blinks several times, and rubs his eyes again before looking around at his surroundings. He's not in his room anymore, and no where near a dance call. He's in the base's kitchen, sitting in grease and dust, soot on his nose.

“Chibi!” Yami barks again. “Stop sleeping in the kitchen!” He growls, bonking Asta on the skull. “You're gonna make people think I can't afford accommodations for my own Knights. Think of my reputation, will ya? Asshole!”

With that, Yami bonks him on the head again before trudging out of the room. Asta notices him slipping a few prepackaged cinnamon buns into his trouser pockets, but opts to keep his mouth shut. When his captain is far enough away, Asta slumps down on his back and stares at the great, wide ceiling.

Cherries and pine – that's the scent he's so desperately ached for these past few weeks since he'd made the contract. That's what he desires.

“Do you like cherries?” Asta wonders out loud.

The demon doesn't answer, but he chalks that up to it sleeping inside his chest. It's not in his grimoire anymore, of course, because the grimoire will die with him when it's time. Now, the demon is sleeping inside of him, housed in a tiny part of Asta's soul. Maybe one day, when he's more accustomed to its presence, they will meet in the room it sleeps in, instead of dance halls and wherever else they've been in, in his dreams.

“I hope you like cherries,” Asta says out loud. “I'll bring you some next time.”

And somewhere, deep down, he hopes he can hand-feed the monster sleeping in his chest, because the more he thinks about it, the deeper he falls into the hole.

“Come to think of it,” Asta mumbles to himself as he picks himself off the greasy floor, “you're kinda pretty.”

And Asta can _feel_ it chuckle in response, and that makes him happy, because that means it's awake, and that it knows, and suddenly, it's not _so_ bad that there's a great, big abomination living inside his chest.

It's a pretty little thing, after all.

* * *


End file.
